Rabindranath Tagore, "The Lost Jewels" (Translated 1925) (Short Story)
Tags: Storytelling (self-reflexive), Marital dysfunction, "Submissive" men, Queer and homoerotic themes, Hoarding jewelry, ghosts, ghostly reincarnation, drowning
THE LOST JEWELS
My boat was moored beside an old bathing ghat of the river, almost
in ruins. The sun had set.
On the roof of the boat the boatmen were at their evening prayer.
Against the bright background of the western sky their silent worship
stood out like a picture. The waning light was reflected on the still
surface of river in every delicate shade of colour from gold to
steel-blue.
A huge house with broken windows, tumbledown verandas, and all the
appearance of old age was in front of me. I sat alone on the steps of
the _ghat_, which were cracked by the far-reaching roots of a banyan
tree. A feeling of sadness began to come over me, when suddenly I was
startled to hear a voice asking: 'Sir, where have you come from?'
I looked up, and saw a man who seemed half-starved and out of fortune.
His face had a dilapidated look such as is common among my countrymen
who take up service away from home. His dirty coat of Assam silk was
greasy and open at the front. He appeared to be just returning from
his day's work, and to be taking a walk by the side of the river at a
time when he should have been eating his evening meal.
The new-comer sat beside me on the steps. I said in answer to his
question: 'I come from Ranchi.'
'What occupation?'
'I am a merchant.'
'What sort?'
'A dealer in cocoons and timber.'
'What name?'
After a moment's hesitation I gave a name, but it was not my own.
Still the stranger's curiosity was not satisfied. Again he questioned
me: 'What have you come here for?' I replied: 'For a change of air.'
My cross-examiner seemed a little astonished. He said: 'Well, sir, I
have been enjoying the air of this place for nearly six years, and
with it I have taken a daily average of fifteen grains of quinine, but
I have not noticed that I have benefited much.'
I replied: 'Still, you must acknowledge that, after Ranchi, I shall
find the air of this place sufficient of a change.'
'Yes, indeed,' said he. 'More than you bargain for. But where will you
stay here?'
Pointing to the tumble-down house above the _ghat_, I said: 'There.'
I think my friend had a suspicion that I had come in search of hidden
treasure. However, he did not pursue the subject. He only began to
describe to me what had happened in this ruined building some fifteen
years before.
I found that he was the schoolmaster of the place. From beneath an
enormous bald head, his two eyes shone out from their sockets with an
unnatural brightness in a face that was thin with hunger and illness.
The boatmen, having finished their evening prayer, turned their
attention to their cooking. As the last light of the day faded, the
dark and empty house stood silent and ghostly above the deserted
_ghat_.
The schoolmaster said: 'Nearly ten years ago, when I came to this
place, Bhusan Saha used to live in this house. He was the heir to the
large property and business of his uncle Durga Saha, who was
childless.
'But he was modern. He had been educated, and not only spoke faultless
English, but actually entered sahibs' offices with his shoes on. In
addition to that he grew a beard; thus he had not the least chance of
bettering himself so far as the sahibs were concerned. You had only to
look at him to see that he was a modernised Bengali.
'In his own home, too, he had another drawback. His wife was
beautiful. With his college education on the one hand, and on the
other his beautiful wife, what chance was there of his preserving our
good old traditions in his home? In fact, when he was ill, he actually
called in the assistant surgeon. And his style of food, dress, and his
wife's jewels were all on the same extravagant scale.
'Sir, you are certainly a married man, so that it is hardly necessary
to tell you that the ordinary female is fond of sour green mangoes,
hot chillies, and a stern husband. A man need not necessarily be ugly
or poor to be cheated of his wife's love; but he is sure to lose it if
he is too gentle.
'If you ask me why this is so, I have much to say on this subject, for
I have thought a good deal about it. A deer chooses a hardwood tree on
which to sharpen its horns, and would get no pleasure in rubbing its
horns against the soft stem of a plantain tree. From the very moment
that man and woman became separate sexes, woman has been exercising
all her faculties in trying by various devices to fascinate and bring
man under her control. The wife of a man who is, of his own accord,
submissive is altogether out of employment. All those weapons which
she has inherited from her grandmothers of untold centuries are
useless in her hands: the force of her tears, the fire of her anger,
and the snare of her glances lie idle.
'Under the spell of modern civilisation man has lost the God-given
power of his barbaric nature, and this has loosened the conjugal ties.
The unfortunate Bhusan had been turned out of the machine of modern
civilisation an absolutely faultless man. He was therefore neither
successful in business nor in his own home.
'Mani was Bhusan's wife. She used to get her caresses without asking,
her Dacca muslin saris without tears, and her bangles without being
able to pride herself on a victory. In this way her woman's nature
became atrophied, and with it her love for her husband. She simply
accepted things without giving anything in return. Her harmless and
foolish husband used to imagine that to give is the way to get. The
fact was just the contrary.
'The result of this was that Mani looked upon her husband as a mere
machine for turning out her Dacca muslins and her bangles--so perfect
a machine, indeed, that never for a single day did she need to oil its
wheels.
'Though Bhusan's birthplace was Phulbere, here was his place of
business, where, for the sake of his work, he spent most of his time.
At his Phulbere house he had no mother, but had plenty of aunts and
uncles and other relatives, from which distraction he brought away his
wife to this house and kept her to himself alone. But there is this
difference between a wife and one's other possessions, that by keeping
her to oneself one may lose her beyond recovery.
'Bhusan's wife did not talk very much, nor did she mix much with her
neighbours. To feed Brahmans in obedience to a sacred vow, or to give
a few pice to a religious mendicant, was not her way. In her hands
nothing was ever lost; whatever she got she saved up most carefully,
with the one exception of the memory of her husband's caresses. The
extraordinary thing was that she did not seem to lose the least atom
of her youthful beauty. People said that whatever her age was, she
never looked older than sixteen. I suppose youth is best preserved
with the aid of a heart that is an ice-box.
'But as far as work was concerned Mani was very efficient. She never
kept more servants than were absolutely necessary. She thought that to
pay wages to any one to do work which she herself could do was like
playing the pickpocket with her own money.
'Not being anxious about any one, never being distracted by love,
always working and saving, she was never sick nor sorry.
'For the majority of husbands this is quite sufficient,--not only
sufficient, but fortunate. For the loving wife is a wife who makes it
difficult for her husband to forget her, and the fatigue of perpetual
remembrance wears out life's bloom. It is only when a man has lumbago
that he becomes conscious of his waist. And lumbago in domestic
affairs is to be made conscious, by the constant imposition of love,
that you have such a thing as a wife. Excessive devotion to her
husband may be a merit for the wife but not comfortable for the
husband,--that is my candid opinion.
'I hope I am not tiring you, sir? I live alone, you see; I am banished
from the company of my wife, and there are many important social
questions which I have leisure to think about, but cannot discuss with
my pupils. In course of conversation you will see how deeply I have
thought of them.'
Just as he was speaking, some jackals began to howl from a
neighbouring thicket. The schoolmaster stopped for a moment the
torrent of his talk. When the sound had ceased, and the earth and the
water relapsed into a deeper silence, he--opened his glowing eyes wide
in the darkness of the night, and resumed the thread of his story.
'Suddenly a tangle occurred in Bhusan's complicated business. What
exactly happened it is not possible for a layman like myself either to
understand or to explain. Suffice it to say that, for some sudden
reason, he found it difficult to get credit in the market. If only he
could, by hook or by crook, raise a lakh and a half of rupees, and
only for a few days rapidly flash it before the market, then his
credit would be restored, and he would be able to sail fair again.
'But the money did not come easily. If the rumour got about that he
was borrowing in the market where he was known, then he feared that
his business would suffer even more seriously. So he began to cast
about to see whether he could not raise a loan from some stranger.
But, in that case, he would be bound to give some satisfactory
security.
'The best security of all is jewelry, for that saves the signing of
all sorts of complicated documents. It not only saves time but is a
simple process.
'So Bhusan went to his wife. But unfortunately he was not able to face
his wife as easily as most men are. His love for his wife was of that
kind which has to tread very carefully, and cannot speak out plainly
what is in the mind; it is like the attraction of the sun for the
earth, which is strong, yet which leaves immense space between them.
'Still, even the hero of a high-class romance does sometimes, when
hard pressed, have to mention to his beloved such things as mortgage
deeds and promissory notes. But the words stick, and the tune does not
seem right, and the shrinking of reluctance makes itself felt. The
unfortunate Bhusan was totally powerless to say: "Look here, I am in
need of money; bring out your jewels."
'He did broach the subject to his wife at last, but with such extreme
delicacy that it only excited her opposition without bending it to his
own purpose. When Mani set her face hard, and said nothing, he was
deeply hurt, yet he was incapable of returning the hurt back to her.
The reason was that he had not even a trace of that barbarity which is
the gift of the male. If any one had upbraided him for this, then most
probably he would have expressed some such subtle sentiment as the
following: "If my wife, of her own free choice, is unwilling to trust
me with her jewelry, then I have no right to take them from her by
force."
'Has God given to man such forcefulness only for him to spend his time
in delicate measurement of fine-spun ideals?
'However this may be, Bhusan, being too proud to touch his wife's
jewels, went to Calcutta to try some other way of raising the money.
'As a general rule in this world, the wife knows the husband far
better than the husband ever knows the wife; but extremely modern men
in their subtlety of nature are altogether beyond the range of those
unsophisticated instincts which womankind has acquired through ages.
These men are a new race, and have become as mysterious as women
themselves. Ordinary men can be divided roughly into three main
classes; some of them are barbarians, some are fools, and some are
blind; but these modern men do not fit into any of them.
'So Mani called her counsellor for consultation. Some cousin of hers
was engaged as assistant steward on Bhusan's estate. He was not the
kind of man to profit himself by dint of hard work, but by help of his
position in the family he was able to save his salary, and even a
little more.
'Mani called him and told him what had happened. She ended up by
asking him: "Now what is your advice?"
'He shook his head wisely and said: "I don't like the look of things
at all." The fact is that wise men never like the look of things. Then
he added: "Babu will never be able to raise the money, and in the end
he will have to fall back upon that jewelry of yours."
'From what she knew of humanity she thought that this was not only
possible but likely. Her anxiety became keener than ever. She had no
child to love, and though she had a husband she was almost unable to
realise his very existence. So her blood froze at the very thought
that her only object of love, the wealth which like a child had grown
from year to year, was to be in a moment thrown into the bottomless
abyss of trade. She gasped: "What, then, is to be done?"
'Modhu said: "Why not take your jewels and go to your father's
house?" In his heart of hearts he entertained the hope that a portion,
and possibly the larger portion, of that jewelry would fall to his
lot.
'Mani at once agreed. It was a rainy night towards the end of summer.
At this very ghat a boat was moored. Mani, wrapped from head to foot
in a thick shawl, stepped into the boat. The frogs croaked in the
thick darkness of the cloudy dawn. Modhu, waking up from sleep, roused
himself from the boat, and said: "Give me the box of jewels."
'Mani replied: "Not now, afterwards. Now let us start."
'The boat started, and floated swiftly down the current. Mani had
spent the whole night in covering every part of her body with her
ornaments. She was afraid that if she put her jewels into a box they
might be snatched away from her hands. But if she wore them on her
person, then no one could take them away without murdering her. Mani
did not understand Bhusan, it is true; but there was no doubt about
her understanding of Modhu.
'Modhu had written a letter to the chief steward to the effect that he
had started to take his mistress to her father's house. The steward
was an ancient retainer of Bhusan's father. He was furiously angry,
and wrote a lengthy epistle, full of misspellings, to his master.
Although the letter was weak in its grammar, yet it was forcible in
its language, and clearly expressed the writer's disapproval of giving
too much indulgence to womankind. Bhusan on receiving it understood
what was the motive of Mani's secret departure. What hurt him most was
the fact that, in spite of his having given way to the unwillingness
of his wife to part with her jewels in this time of his desperate
straits, his wife should still suspect him.
'When he ought to have been angry, Bhusan was only distressed. Man is
the rod of God's justice, to him has been entrusted the thunderbolt of
the divine wrath, and if at wrong done to himself or another it does
not at once break out into fury, then it is a shame. God has so
arranged it that man, for the most trifling reason, will burst forth
in anger like a forest fire, and woman will burst into tears like a
rain-cloud for no reason at all. But the cycle seems to have changed,
and this appears no longer to hold good.
'The husband bent his head, and said to himself: "Well, if this is
your judgment, let it be so. I will simply do my own duty." Bhusan,
who ought to have been born five or six centuries hence, when the
world will be moved by psychic forces, was unfortunate enough not only
to be born in the nineteenth century, but also to marry a woman who
belonged to that primitive age which persists through all time. He did
not write a word on the subject to his wife, and determined in his
mind that he would never mention it to her again. What an awful
penalty!
'Ten or twelve days later, having secured the necessary loan, Bhusan
returned to his home. He imagined that Mani, after completing her
mission, had by this time come back from her father's house. And so he
approached the door of the inner apartments, wondering whether his
wife would show any signs of shame or penitence for the undeserved
suspicion with which she had treated him.
'He found that the door was shut. Breaking the lock, he entered the
room, and saw that it was empty.
'It seemed to him that the world was a huge cage from which the bird
of love had flown away, leaving behind it all the decorations of the
blood-red rubies of our hearts, and the pearl pendants of our
tear-drops.
'At first Bhusan did not trouble about his wife's absence. He thought
that if she wanted to come back she would do so. His old Brahman
steward, however, came to him, and said: "What good will come of
taking no notice of it? You ought to get some news of the mistress."
Acting on this suggestion, messengers were sent to Mani's father's
house. The news was brought that up to that time neither Mani nor
Modhu had turned up there.
'Then a search began in every direction. Men went along both banks of
the river making inquiries. The police were given a description of
Modhu, but all in vain. They were unable to find out what boat they
had taken, what boatman they had hired, or by what way they had gone.
'One evening, when all hope had been abandoned of ever finding his
wife, Bhusan entered his deserted bedroom. It was the festival of
Krishna's birth, and it had been raining incessantly from early
morning. In celebration of the festival there was a fair going on in
the village, and in a temporary building a theatrical performance was
being given. The sound of distant singing could be heard mingling
with the sound of pouring rain. Bhusan was sitting alone in the
darkness at the window there which hangs loose upon its hinges. He
took no notice of the damp wind, the spray of the rain, and the sound
of the singing. On the wall of the room were hanging a couple of
pictures of the goddesses Lakshmi and Saraswati, painted at the Art
Studio; on the clothes-rack a towel, and a bodice, and a pair of
_saris_ were laid out ready for use. On a table in one corner of the
room there was a box containing betel leaves prepared by Mani's own
hand, but now quite dry and uneatable. In a cupboard with a glass door
all sorts of things were arranged with evident care--her china dolls
of childhood's days, scent bottles, decanters of coloured glass, a
sumptuous pack of cards, large brightly polished shells, and even
empty soapboxes. In a niche there was a favourite little lamp with
its round globe. Mani had been in the habit of lighting it with her
own hands every evening. One who goes away, leaving everything empty,
leaves the imprint of his living heart even on lifeless objects. Come,
Mani, come back again, light your lamp, fill your room with light once
more, and, standing before your mirror, put on your _sari_ which has
been prepared with such care. See, all your things are waiting for
you. No one will claim anything more from you, but only ask you to
give a living unity once more to these scattered and lifeless things,
by the mere presence of your imperishable youth and unfading beauty.
Alas, the inarticulate cry of these mute and lifeless objects has made
this room into a realm of things that have lost their world.
'In the dead of night, when the heavy rain had ceased, and the songs
of the village opera troupe had become silent, Bhusan was sitting in
the same position as before. Outside the window there was such an
impenetrable darkness that it seemed to him as if the very gates of
oblivion were before him reaching to the sky,--as if he had only to
cry out to be able to recover sight of those things which seemed to
have been lost for ever.
'Just as he was thinking thus, a jingling sound as of ornaments was
heard. It seemed to be advancing up the steps of the _ghat_. The water
of the river and the darkness of the night were indistinguishable.
Thrilling with excitement, Bhusan tried to pierce and push through the
darkness with his eager eyes, till they ached,--but he could see
nothing. The more anxious he was to see, the denser the darkness
became, and the more shadowy the outer world. Nature, seeing an
intruder at the door of her hall of death, seemed suddenly to have
drawn a still thicker curtain of darkness.
'The sound reached the top step of the bathing _ghat_, and now began
to come towards the house. It stopped in front of the door, which had
_been locked by the porter before he went to the fair. Then upon that
closed door there fell a rain of jingling blows, as if with some
ornaments. Bhusan was not able to sit still another moment, but,
making his way through the unlighted rooms and down the dark
staircase, he stood before the closed door. It was padlocked from the
outside, so he began to shake it with all his might. The force with
which he shook the door and the sound which he made woke him suddenly.
He found he had been asleep, and in his sleep he had made his way down
to the door of the house. His whole body was wet with sweat, his hands
and feets were icy cold, and his heart was fluttering like a lamp just
about to go out. His dream being broken, he realised that there was no
sound outside except the pattering of the rain which had commenced
again.
'Although the whole thing was a dream, Bhusan felt as if for some very
small obstacle he had been cheated of the wonderful realisation of his
impossible hope. The incessant patter of the rain seemed to say to
him: "This awakening is a dream. This world is vain."
'The festival was continued on the following day, and the doorkeeper
again had leave. Bhusan gave orders that the hall-door was to be left
open all night, but the porter objected that there were all sorts of
suspicious characters about who had come from other places to the
fair, and that it would not be safe to leave the door open. But Bhusan
would not listen, whereupon the porter said that he would himself stay
on guard. But Bhusan refused to allow him to remain. The porter was
puzzled, but did not press the point.
'That night, having extinguished the light, Bhusan took his seat at
the open window of his bedroom as before. The sky was dark with
rain-clouds, and there was a silence as of something indefinite and
impending. The monotonous croaking of the frogs and the sound of the
distant songs were not able to break that silence, but only seemed to
add an incongruity to it.
'Late at night the frogs and the crickets and the boys of the opera
party became silent, and a still deeper darkness fell upon the night.
It seemed that now the time had come.
'Just as on the night before, a clattering and jingling sound came
from the _ghat_ by the river. But this time Bhusan did not look in
that direction, lest, by his over-anxiety and restlessness, his power
of sight and hearing would become overwhelmed. He made a supreme
effort to control himself, and sat still.
'The sound of the ornaments gradually advanced from the _ghat_, and
entered the open door. Then it came winding up the spiral staircase
which led to the inner apartments. It became difficult for Bhusan to
control himself, his heart began to thump wildly, and his throat was
choking with suppressed excitement. Having reached the head of the
spiral stairs, the sound came slowly along the veranda towards the
door of the room, where it stopped just outside with a clanking sound.
It was now only just on the other side of the threshold.
'Bhusan could contain himself no longer, and his pent-up excitement
burst forth in one wild cry of "Mani," and he sprang up from his chair
with lightning rapidity. Thus startled out of his sleep, he found that
the very window-panes were rattling with the vibration of his cry. And
outside he could hear the croaking of the frogs and patter of rain.
'Bhusan struck his forehead in despair.
'Next day the fair broke up, and the stall-keepers and the players'
party went away. Bhusan gave orders that that night no one should
sleep in the house except himself. The servants came to the conclusion
that their master was going to practise some mystic rites. All that
day Bhusan fasted.
'In the evening, he took his seat at the window of that empty house.
That day there were breaks in the clouds, showing the stars twinkling
through-the rain-washed air. The moon was late in rising, and, as the
fair was over, there was not a single boat on the flooded river. The
villagers, tired out by two nights' dissipation, were sound asleep.
'Bhusan, sitting with his head resting on the back of his chair, was
gazing up at the stars. He was thinking of the time when he was only
nineteen years old, and was reading in Calcutta; how in the evening he
used to lie in College Square, with his hands behind his head, gazing
up at those eternal stars, and thinking of the sweet face of Mani in
his father-in-law's house. The very separation from her was like an
instrument whose tense-drawn strings those stars used to touch and
waken into song.
'As he watched them, the stars one by one disappeared. From the sky
above, and from the earth beneath, screens of darkness met like tired
eyelids upon weary eyes. To-night Bhusan's mind was full of peace. He
felt certain that the moment had come when his heart's desire would be
fulfilled, and that Death would reveal his mysteries to his devotee.
'The sound came from the river _ghat_ just as on the previous nights
and advanced up the steps. Bhusan closed his eyes, and sat in deep
meditation. The sound reached the empty hall. It came winding up the
spiral stairs. Then it crossed the long veranda, and paused for a long
while at the bedroom door.
'Bhusan's heart beat fast; his whole body trembled. But this time he
did not open his eyes. The sound crossed the threshold. It entered
the room. Then it went slowly round the room, stopping before the rack
where the clothes were hanging, the niche with its little lamp, the
table where the dried betel leaves were lying, the _almirah_ with its
various knick-knacks, and, last of all, it came and stood close to
Bhusan himself.
'Bhusan opened his eyes. He saw by the faint light of the crescent
moon that there was a skeleton standing right in front of his chair.
It had rings on all its fingers, bracelets on its wrists and armlets
on its arms, necklaces on its neck, and a golden tiara on its
head,--in fact its whole body glittered and sparkled with gold and
diamonds. The ornaments hung loosely on the limbs, but did not fall
off. Most dreadful of all was the fact that the two eyes which shone
out from the bony face were living--two dark moist eyeballs looking
out with a fixed and steady stare from between the long thick
eyelashes. As he looked his blood froze in his veins. He tried hard to
close his eyes but could not; they remained open, staring like those
of a dead man.
'Then the skeleton, fixing its gaze upon the face of the motionless
Bhusan, silently beckoned with its outstretched hand, the diamond
rings on its bony fingers glittering in the pale moonlight.
'Bhusan stood up, as one who had lost his senses, and followed the
skeleton, which left the room, its bones and ornaments rattling with a
hollow sound. The skeleton crossed the veranda and, winding down the
pitch-dark spiral staircase, reached the bottom of the stairs.
Crossing the lower veranda, they entered the empty lampless hall and,
passing through it, came out on to the brick-paved path of the garden.
The bricks crunched under the tread of the bony feet. The faint
moonlight struggled through the thick network of branches, and the
path was difficult to discern. Making their way through the flitting
fireflies, which haunted the dark shadowy path, they reached the river
_ghat_.
'By those very steps, up which the sound had come, the bejewelled
skeleton went down step by step, with a stiff gait and hard sound. On
the swift current of the river, flooded by the heavy rain, a faint
streak of moonlight was visible.
'The skeleton descended to the river, and Bhusan, following it, placed
one foot in the water. The moment he touched the water he woke with a
start. His guide was no longer to be seen. Only the trees on the
opposite bank of the river were standing still and silent, and
overhead the half moon was staring as if astonished. Starting from
head to foot, Bhusan slipped and fell headlong into the river.
Although he knew how to swim, he was powerless to do so, for his limbs
were not under his control. From the midst of dreams he had stepped,
for a moment only, into the borderland of waking life--the next moment
to be plunged into eternal sleep.'
Having finished his story, the schoolmaster was silent for a little.
Suddenly, the moment he stopped, I realised that except for him the
whole world had become silent and still. For a long time I also
remained speechless, and in the darkness he was unable to see from my
face what was its expression.
At last he asked me: 'Don't you believe this story?'
I asked: 'Do you?'
He said: 'No; and I can give you one or two reasons why. In the first
place, Dame Nature does not write novels, she has enough to do
without------'
I interrupted him and said: 'And, in the second place, my name happens
to be Bhusan Saha.'
The schoolmaster, without the least sign of discomfiture, said: 'I
guessed as much. And what was your wife's name?'
I answered: 'Nitya Kali.'